


Never Trust A Hitchhiker

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Wandering [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Hitchhiking, One Night Stands And Thievery, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Need a ride?" you ask over the sound of your own engine.</i></p><p><i>One dark penciled brow arches at you.  "I don't usually take rides from strangers," she says.  Her voice is low and smooth and you have to strain to hear it.</i></p><p><i>You cross your arms and size her up with your one good eye.  "Yeah?  Well, I don't usually pick up dykes," you respond.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Trust A Hitchhiker

The first time you see her, she's marching down the interstate, one thumb resolutely hooked in her pocket, the other in the strap of an Army-surplus canvas duffel. You come up behind her and you watch those hips swing from side to side as if mesmirized. She's wearing the tightest pair of high-waisted pants you've ever seen, black Doc Marten's, and a loose half-shirt that slides off of one pale shoulder. Her hair is so blonde it's almost white and when you pass her she looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes that could very nearly be considered black. She's got a cigarette between plump red lips.

You turn your bike around so quickly that you think you may topple. You stop in the middle of the road and pull off your helmet. Your hair is wild and as she walks closer you think you see apprehension in those eyes. Perhaps that has more to do with the eyepatch than the wild hair, though.

As she comes closer, you realize she's sucking on a lollipop, not a cigarette.

Of fucking course.

"Need a ride?" you ask over the sound of your own engine.

One dark penciled brow arches at you. "I don't usually take rides from strangers," she says. Her voice is low and smooth and you have to strain to hear it.

You cross your arms and size her up with your one good eye. "Yeah? Well, I don't usually pick up dykes," you respond.

She looks you up and down. You've got a good foot on her. You're leaner--mangy, even. The look she gives you is unimpressed. "Well, that's not likely, is it?" Nevertheless, she climbs onto the bike behind you and you feel the hot press of her thighs against yours. She adjusts, then rests her hands on your hips.

You hand her the helmet.

\---

When you stop to gas up, you ask where she's headed.

"El Paso," she answers coolly.

You tell her simply that it's on the way. She buys you a soda. Wordlessly-- _thanklessly_ \--she slides back behind you. You ride until nightfall and then pull of on an exit. You don't drive at night. The whole... one-eye-thing makes your depth perception bad enough in the daylight. You stop at the town's only restaurant, a Chinese buffet. Which is classy. She gets off before you. When you hop off, thighs and ass aching, she's already got the helmet off and balancing on the seat.

She speaks only once when you sit down, to tell the waitress that she wants iced tea. She seems content to eat in silence and to watch you do the same. There's something in her eyes, glinting and knowing. Or maybe you're just paranoid.

Finally, you say, "You never told me your name."

"You never asked," she replies quickly, lips twisting gently. She takes a bite and you almost give up on her volunteering any information. Then, "Rose." Her eyes are on you. Her brow rises.

"Vriska."

She sets her chopsticks down and sets her chin on laced fingers. "Hm. Vuh-risk-ah," she says, seeming tot aste the very name, to roll it on her tongue. "Interesting." You watch her as if trying to read her mind.

"Why were you walking to El Paso?"

"No car."

"Where are you from?"

She doesn't answer, just starts eating again. Eventually, she stands. Her plate is clean. "Lavatory," she mutters softly.

\---

You get a hotel room. For a moment, she seems to hesitate. Then she walks in with you. You go shower, wondering vaguely about your mostly-silent companion. You almost half-expect the girl to come in there and stab you, steal your bike and money, and ride into the sunset.

Alas, no such fate befalls you and you eventually shut the water off. Your glasses are fogged so you simply hook them into the front of the towel you wrap loosely around yourself. She's laying on the bed closest to the door, legs crossed with one foot bouncing as she (presumably) listens to CNN. She's still wearing the half-shirt but she must have wrestled her way out of those painted-on jeans. You can't help but oberseve that those lavender panties she's wearing are sinfully wholesome. There's a tattoo high on her outer thigh that you can barely see.

"It's Cthulhu," she says, uncrossing her legs and turning so that you can see it better. You also get a glimpse of her thinly-clad ass, which you guess is a plus. She twists to face you, unabashedly and disinterestedly watching you change. "Why wouldn't you usually pick up dykes when you so clearly are one?"

You stop halfway through pulling on a T-shirt. "Are you trying to insult me?"

"Not at all. Is having someone imply you're a lesbian an insult?"

You don't answer. You lay on the other bed and watch the news until her silence seems to crush you. "Why are you going to El Paso?"

"To see my half-brother," she says, shocking you with her seeming honesty. She gives you the most peculiar look. "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Pardon?" you somehow manage to croak even though your throat feels as if it has suddenly contracted.

She leans back on the bed, propping on her elbows and tilting her chin. "As the probability that you really didn't hear me is exceedingly slim, you'll excuse me for not repeating my inquiry." You almost comment that this is the most you've heard out of her all day but cut that impulse short. You sit up. "Well?" she asks.

She's infuriatingly uninterested and you resolve not to answer.

You're not paying attention when she stands and crosses the small space between your beds. She straddles your lap boldly and you refuse to be the one to abscond. "I can see that you do," she whispers. Her tone is different now, less cold and her eyes pin you down. Figuratively. There's heat radiating off of her. But you may be imagining that.

"If it's so obvious, why are you asking?" you ask in half-whisper.

You do want her. You wanted her the moment you saw her but now there's something else. There's something about how aggressive she's being. It makes giddy shivers run down your spine and settle between your legs.

"Because you need to verbalize your desires," she says, sliding closer. At your perplexed look, she leans forward, breath fanning over your ear. "I want to hear you say it."

You roll quickly and pin her to the mattress. You feel her legs wrap around your hips and a shiver run through her. "Rose, I want to fuck you," you say as evenly as you can.

She arches up to press her lips to yours. They're hot and insistant as her curious fingers comb through your still-wet mane. Then down your neck, chest, stomach. They push up your shirt and she cups your breasts eagerly. Your tongue probes into her molten mouth, strokes hers, elicits a deep moan. Abruptly, you yank away long enough to tear your shirt over your head, toss it across the room, and shove hers up to her chin. She hisses and uses her legs to grip you tighter, locking your body against hers as she grides against you. You dip your head to scrape your teeth over one hard, pink nipple before taking it into your mouth. Her moan is deep and tinted with decadence. You feel your hand slide down her flat belly of its own accord and over the soft cotton of her panties. You twist out of her grip just a little to brush a little playfully down the front of her sex. She bucks against you, pinning your hand between both of your bodies. When you press your hips further, your fingers grind harder against her clit and she gives a little moan of appreciation. Your lips return to hers and this kiss is sloppy, rough, wet.

You wrench away from her and she whimpers in disappointment. "What are you..."

"Panties. Off," you command. Even as you speak, you hook your fingers in the band of her underwear and start tugging them down her smooth legs. She shimmies and wiggles out of them, eyes steadfast on your face as you toss them to the floor.

She pushes you back onto the bed and nips the sensitive flesh just under your jaw. "Yours too," she whispers. "Fair is fair, after all." With maddening slowness, she sucks and bites your throat while you shove your own underwear down your thighs, using your legs to kick them the rest of the way off.

She thrusts one thigh between your legs and rolls her hips, the friction ripping a delicious moan from your lips. She sets an achingly slow rhythm, eyes nearly closed and swollen lips opened in a sweet, red O as she takes soft, panting breaths. You grab her ass, urging her faster. The feeling of her wet pussy grinding against your leg is almost enough to drive you crazy. As her hips buck faster, wanton little moans slip past her parted lips. You hear yourself groaning louder than her, rolling your hips up off the mattress. Your movements become careless, your grip too-tight, as you come closer to climax. You feel her control slipping as her manicured nails dig into your scalp. Her moans become a litany of, "Yesyesyes." Her body tenses when she cums, a sharp cry tearing from her chest.

You don't last long after that, your own orgasm a bit more vocal as you hold her tight to you.

After you stop trembling, she rolls off of you. Her legs look a little wobbly as she stands and puts her panties back on. She's still breathing a tad heavily as she makes her way to her duffel. What she pulls out seems jarringly anticlimactic: a small wooden box. She lays back down next to you, eyes now on the box. "Smoke?" she asks casually.

"Depends," you respond cautiously. Instead of replying, she opens the box and almost elegantly begins rolling a joint. She handles it with gentle, near-loving fingers, licks it shut with kittenish strokes of her tongue. Such an action shouldn't have seemed sexual, but it does.

Wordlessly, she lights it with a match from what you think is a strip club and takes an expert hit before passing it to you. You regard it for a moment before following suit. Why not? It's not until she tosses the roach into her box that you realize perhaps you should have paced yourself. You realize dizzyingly that you are far too high far too quickly. She seems to notice as well and looks at you with a knowing amusement. "Pussy," she chides, smirking.

"Sure, sure," you murmur, grabbing the remote and finally changing the channel to something more bearable. You can't believe you just fucked someone with CNN on as background noise.

You're not sure when your stoned stupor shifts into sleep. You're barely aware of it when she slides off the bed to shut off the lights and then into her own bed. You're faintly aware of the disconcerting disappointment you feel that she doesn't return to your side.

You wake up feeling oddly loose. Your eye feels sticky and gritty. Your mouth is dry and the taste on your tongue is gag-inducing. You pad, nude, into the bathroom to wash your mouth out and gulp down tap water like it was the nectar of the gods. Feeling more human, you leave the small room to see if Rose has awoken yet. What you find is an empty, neatly-made bed. You frown. You open the curtains. Your bike is gone. Fucking gone. You turn on the lights. On the bed is a single, torn piece of the paper. Written in dark purple ink were the words, _"Never trust a hitchhiker."_


End file.
